THE ELECTRIC HEIR

by Lee, Victoria

This had already gone on too long. Noam should have stopped Lehrer sooner, should have realized where this would end when he dared to tighten his fingers round Lehrer’s neck.

  He knocked Lehrer’s hand away, but it was just to finish undoing his belt buckle on his own, with telekinesis. Lehrer grinned against Noam’s mouth, clearly pleased with the use of magic, his teeth catching Noam’s lower lip as Noam kicked his wet trousers off and away.

  He let Lehrer keep kissing him for a moment. But not for long.

  Noam turned his face away, suddenly breathless. His skin was cold now, damp and exposed, as he stood there in his underwear with Lehrer the only source of heat.

  “What is it?” Lehrer murmured and didn’t draw away.

  “Sorry,” Noam said, blinking against the suddenly too-bright light of the lamp on Lehrer’s bedside table. “I just. Headache.”

  Lehrer’s fingers slid along his jaw, tilting his chin so he faced him once more. His gaze slid over Noam’s face—although what he searched for Noam wasn’t sure. “It’s the stress,” Lehrer said at last. “Maybe I was wrong to trust you with this.”

  Noam’s pulse stumbled. “No,” he said, trying not to argue back too quickly—he didn’t want to seem defensive. “It’s . . . fine. I’m just tired.” He pressed his lips into a tight smile.

  “Perhaps,” Lehrer said slowly. “I’ll admit I’ve been . . . concerned. You’ve shown remarkable progress these past six months, since the coup. I was impressed with how you handled the Brennan situation. But surely that was difficult for you. And this winter, especially—” His thumb grazed Noam’s lower lip. “You’ve been drinking too much. It concerns me.”

  “Not that much.” Not like Ames. “You’re the one who’s always handing me a glass of scotch every time I walk into the room—”

  “Enough.” Lehrer’s hand fell from Noam’s face and he stepped away, retrieving his papers from the foot of the bed. He paced away from Noam again, reading—and at first Noam thought that was the end of it, that perhaps Lehrer might even order him to change into his uniform and return to the barracks. But then Lehrer said, his back to Noam: “I would hate for you to end up like Dara.”

  Noam went still. His feet grew roots into the floor, tethering him in place as his breath went cold in his lungs. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Lehrer glanced back at him. “What do you think?” He turned toward Noam more fully, and Noam wondered if he could see how Noam’s skin prickled with a sudden chill. “By the time I realized how bad Dara’s problem had become, it was too late. When he tried to get sober, he nearly died.”

  Noam chewed the inside of his cheek. “I knew he drank a lot, but . . .”

  “Dara was an alcoholic,” Lehrer said flatly. “And an addict. Although perhaps I should say is.”

  “Well, he’s clean now. He only drinks soda at meetings.”

  Lehrer waved a hand, cigarette scattering sparks into the dim air. “It won’t take. Believe me, I tried. That boy could barely keep himself alive without my help. Wouldn’t even eat unless I forced him. And then he managed to go fevermad—despite my warnings. Despite everything I taught him about the dangers of using his magic in excess.” Lehrer tapped his tongue against the backs of his teeth. “Reckless.”

  There was a lot Noam could have said to that. None of it was likely to help his case, to convince Lehrer he could be trusted to stay in place with Dara and the rest of the Black Magnolia. So instead he nodded and carried his wet trousers into the closet, dumping them in the hamper atop his sodden shirt. He stared down into the basket for a moment, wondering how the hell this had become his life. His laundry mixed in with Lehrer’s. His pajamas folded on the bottom shelf in Lehrer’s closet.

  Only he knew exactly how it happened.

  Reckless, Lehrer’s voice said again in his head.

  Noam grabbed a pair of flannels from the shelf and yanked them on with quick, violent motions. Lehrer was still reading those papers when Noam emerged. He didn’t look up when Noam walked past, or when Noam crawled into the bed and tugged the covers up to his hips.

  Once, a couple months after they got involved—before Noam had discovered Faraday and remembered the truth—he’d sat on the sofa while Lehrer paced the living room holding a similar stack of papers, reading aloud his speech for the next Remembrance Day. It was in many ways a thinly disguised attempt to rally Carolinians against Texas; Texas had just threatened a trade embargo, an issue Lehrer hoped to use to fuel patriotic sentiment.

  Noam was idly scrolling through his phone, reading headlines but not much else. Lehrer kept reading over the same phrase again and again, experimenting with different pitches, different gestures to punctuate his words.

  “Let me be clear,” Lehrer said, with a sharp downward stroke of his hand like the fall of a blade. “These threats by Texas are nothing more than a blatant declaration of antiwitching bigotry—”

  “War,” Noam said.

  Lehrer paused, glancing up from his speech. Noam put down his phone.

  “Texas has declared a war on witchings,” he said.

  A small smile cut across Lehrer’s mouth, and he turned away. But when he gave that speech on Tuesday, he said, “Let me be clear—with these threats, Texas has declared a war on witchings,” and by five all the news outlets were repeating those words as zealously as if Texas had coined the term themselves.

  Noam would like to think that was the start of his moral decay, the night he’d find at the root of all his own evil. But he knew that wasn’t true.

  It started in a cold November courtyard, his face turned toward the starry sky and Lehrer’s marked hand heavy on his shoulder.

  It started the moment they met.

  The outbreak happened fast.

  The first case came from near Atlantia’s southern border—or what used to be Atlantia’s border but was now Carolinia’s border—and from there it spread like fire in dry grass. The response from Carolinian government was just as immediate: quarantines were drawn up, red wards stuffed full of patients, a zone of two hundred square miles sprayed with disinfectant. The images coming out of the south showed crowds of faceless Atlantians all wearing gas masks, wide black glass where their eyes ought to be.

  “This outbreak demonstrates that the annexation of Atlantia has come at a critical point,” Lehrer said in a speech that Wednesday, filmed in the courtyard of the government complex; the light wind rippled against his coat, the effect framing him against the ancient brick walls like a figure out of legend. “With Carolinian technology and Carolinian medicine, we can control the spread and prevent further deaths. We are confident that this outbreak will remain isolated to the far southern zone.”

  Noam knew what Lehrer expected from him. He was supposed to get up on his soapbox in Little Atlantia and parrot the same speech. Better than dying, he was supposed to say. Remind people to be grateful for Carolinian interventionism. Remind them it could have been worse.

  This was just more proof Lehrer didn’t know him at all. That despite everything he said—all those soft touches and sharp smiles, all the times he told Noam they were so alike, all those times he said I trust you—all of it was in service of this. Using Noam’s loyalty to Atlantia for his own twisted ends.

  Noam ended up on a soapbox, all right. But this time it wasn’t out in public where Lehrer’s spies could watch and report back, where anyone could film him and upload his speeches to the internet to spread Lehrer’s message from Noam’s mouth.

  No—this time Noam met them in back rooms of old warehouses, in the meal line at the Migrant Center, in Cajun restaurants and barbecue joints. He couldn’t tell them the truth—Lehrer did this; he caused the outbreak himself just so he could play the hero—but he could do the next best thing.

  He could tell them to fight back.

  It wasn’t like Noam thought this wouldn’t get back to Lehrer eventually—he wasn’t that naive. But.

  This was Noam’s fault, really. For not killing Lehrer when he had the
chance. For not having found the vaccine yet. For encouraging silence and complacency while Lehrer murdered his people.

  His rage carried him all the way back to the government complex, one mental finger on social media—his technopathy had become reflexive now; it was easier than ever to hold multiple lines of thought—in case anyone tried to upload a video from today. But the hashtags were clean. No traitors.

  Not yet.

  Noam was certain if he went to Lehrer’s right now, he wouldn’t be able to keep a straight face. He’d end up punching Lehrer’s, breaking his knuckles on Lehrer’s cheek—Lehrer unharmed, of course. So he went back to the barracks instead, climbing the stairs with heavy feet.

  Bethany was the only one there, curled up on the common room sofa with sock feet tucked under her weight and a holoreader perched against her knees. She looked up when he came in, a blip of electricity flickering against Noam’s senses as she shut off her computer.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey.”

  “Are you okay?”

  Noam frowned. Was it that obvious? “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You look like you haven’t been getting a lot of sleep—that’s all.” It was diplomatically put; Bethany was a healer. She could probably tell exactly how much sleep Noam had or hadn’t gotten. But he couldn’t sense her magic right now, characteristically rosy like a soft sunrise glow, so maybe his exhaustion really was written all over his face.

  “Curse of working two jobs,” Noam said. “I’m counting Level IV as a job, by the way.”

  “Seems fair.” Bethany moved over on the couch and patted the seat cushion next to her; he dropped his satchel by the coffee table and sat, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled eventually. “I’m not gonna be very interesting tonight.”

  “You’ve been spending a lot of time around Lehrer,” Bethany said.

  He looked at her, a muscle clenching in his jaw—but she gazed back with an even expression, unruffled.

  “What does that have to do with anything?” he asked at last, words coming out tight.

  “Maybe nothing,” she said slowly. “But . . . you know . . . I can sense when someone’s hurt. It’s hard to ignore. And I never said anything because I didn’t think it was my business, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t notice.”

  Noam’s breath came quicker now, little sips of air that he couldn’t keep in his lungs. He wet dry lips. “Dara.”

  She nodded. “I healed him a few times. If it was bad enough.”

  Noam let his head fall forward against his hands, dragging fingers back through his hair and squeezing his eyes shut. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. I know . . . about that.”

  “Maybe I should have done something,” Bethany whispered, tone curling up slightly at the end of the sentence like it was half a question. “I thought it was right to keep his secrets, but . . .”

  When he opened his eyes this time, he saw Bethany had drawn her legs up toward her chest, both arms wrapped around her shins and color darkening her cheeks. She couldn’t look at him now—just kept her gaze fixed on the far wall, glaring at it. Her lashes were damp.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Noam said. He reached over and curled his hand around her wrist, squeezing very lightly. “Listen to me, Bethany. I mean it. There was nothing you could have done. Nothing he would have wanted you to do. Even if you had told someone . . . Dara would have denied it, and Lehrer would have buried it, and nothing would’ve changed.”

  “I know,” she breathed. “I just wish he . . . I wish he’d let someone help. You know?”

  Noam nodded slowly. “Yeah. I do.” He twisted toward her more fully, sliding his arm around her shoulders and tugging her into a half embrace. She fit her head beneath his chin, her blonde hair tickling Noam’s nose when he tipped his face down to kiss her crown. “My mother killed herself. I don’t know if I ever told you.”

  She shook her head against his chest. “No. I’m sorry.”

  “It was years ago now. It’s—” Only he couldn’t say it was fine, because it wasn’t. Even now. “I blamed myself. I didn’t even know she was sick. I had . . . no idea. I spent every day with her, and I still didn’t see it coming. And I kept thinking there must have been signs. People don’t just . . . do that, they—”

  “Noam . . .”

  “There was nothing I could have done,” Noam said. “I know. That’s my point. There was nothing I could have done, just like there’s nothing you could’ve done. You can’t fix everything.”

  It had the false note of words said to convince himself as much as her, but he needed to believe it. Needed to try.

  But even now, Noam wondered if someday someone might say that about him. If whatever infected his mother—his father—lived in his blood as well, and one day it would rise up and consume him whole. And there would be nothing he or anyone else could do to stop it.

  “You know what I’m saying, though,” Bethany added after a long moment’s silence, her fingers twisting knots in the hem of Noam’s shirt. “Right?”

  “It’s not like that,” Noam said, leaning into the words more forcefully than he meant to. “I mean—I know, obviously. I know what he’s capable of. But I think you have the wrong idea about me and Lehrer.”

  Bethany leaned back enough to meet his gaze. “Then what’s the right idea?”

  Noam wasn’t sure how to answer that. Later, he couldn’t even remember precisely what he said—just that he made up something fumbled about Lehrer being his instructor, Lehrer-as-political-figure, and escaped back to the bedroom as soon as he could.

  But once he climbed into bed, the darkness opened up above him—and he knew that if he closed his eyes, the old nightmare would seep in to fill the far corners of his mind: Brennan’s body still warm in Noam’s arms as he dragged it into the chair, Brennan’s eyes staring without seeing. He grabbed for his bottle of sleeping pills but then hesitated with five tablets clutched in hand, breath hitching in his chest. Because . . . because what if he took the pills and he fell asleep and he couldn’t wake up? What if he stayed trapped in that memory for hours, circling over it again and again until his alarm rang?

  Noam shoved the pills into his pocket and made himself get up, traipsing back into the common room and turning on the fluorescent overhead light. He stayed there all night, pacing from window to wall and back when the fatigue threatened to rise up and drag him under. And finally—after he’d read two whole books and made six cups of coffee, after his body felt like it had been dragged over miles of gravel—the sun rose over the horizon and the night was over, and Noam was safe again.

  Flyer hidden alongside paraphernalia stolen from C. Lehrer’s records, concealed under a floorboard beneath Noam Álvaro’s barracks bed.

  Carolinia National Domestic Violence Hotline

  +6 99 182 5555

  Your relationship might be abusive if your partner:

  Is jealous and possessive, saying things like “You’re the only person who matters to me.”

  Isolates you, refusing to let you spend time with other friends and family.

  Is controlling; they might demand to know where you are at all times or read your private messages.

  Becomes angry when you disagree with them or don’t follow their advice.

  Pressures or forces you to have sex. This includes having sex when you are too drunk to consent.

  Blames you for their own bad behavior.

  Is condescending and critical.

  Hits you, restrains you, or is rough and forceful in their physical interactions with you.

  Is violent toward other people or has a history of assault and domestic violence.

  Seems to have a split personality; sometimes they are charming and affectionate, but they can become aggressive and angry at the flip of a switch.

  Makes excuses for abusive behavior, saying things like “No one else would understand our relationship.”

  Believes they are abov
e the law.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  DARA

  “It feels like it won’t ever stop snowing,” Dara said. He tipped his head forward to press his brow against the icy window glass. The street outside was bare and white, emptied of people even though it was only eight p.m. The market lights strung over the outdoor patio of the music hall across the street glimmered like fireflies in a blizzard, made small and weak by the storm. There was a crack in the bottom right pane of the window, tiny branches of ice breaking away from it in fractals; that must be why his room was so damn cold all the time.

  “Weather channel said it’s going to keep up through Sunday,” Priya said from behind him. She was sitting on the floor, leaning back against his bed and toying with the little origami bird she’d folded. “You’re not missing much, being stuck in this apartment. It’s all traffic jams and frostbite out there.”

  “Maybe I like traffic jams and frostbite.”

  Dara pushed away from the window, crossing the narrow room to drop into the rickety desk chair instead. Priya perched her tiny bird atop her knee and stared at it.

  “Okay,” she said. “Explain this to me.”

  Dara exhaled. “I’ll do my best,” he said. “It will be . . . I can’t do it anymore, myself. I can’t train you the way I was trained.”

  “I know that. But you’re the only one of us who’s ever been able to see magic at all.”

  “Except Álvaro.”

  “Except Álvaro,” she allowed. But from the silence that stretched out in the wake of those words, he got the sense that for all Priya trusted Noam to come to their meetings, she didn’t trust him much further than that.

  Dara gripped the seat of his chair, splintering wood scraping his palms.

  A part of him wanted to tell her. Priya was . . . quiet, she was discreet, she could keep a secret.

  Only how much of this was Dara’s secret to tell?

  “I’m worried about him,” Dara said, letting go of the chair and clasping his hands together in his lap instead. “Álvaro.”

  Priya leaned back against the edge of Dara’s bed, gaze lifting from the origami bird to meet his. Dara had gotten good at reading expressions, living with Lehrer. Hers was guarded. She had a hypothesis as to why Dara was so worried, but she didn’t want to be the first to say it aloud.